The Vagabond Opera
by White Camel
Summary: Merlin is the seventh son of a seventh son, and one of the undead. Morgana has mysterious visions of the Underworld in her dreams, and is told she is the queen of this realm. As Merlin travels to Camelot to become the greatest warlock of all time, Morgana's visions intensify, and her power grows. Mergana, AU fic.
1. The Afterlife

**THE VAGABOND OPERA**

* * *

The campfire gave a grumbling crackle, spitting beads of glowing embers at Merlin's bare, muddy toes. They missed, searing little black holes through tiny clumps of orange autumn leaves. A small circle of life nestled around the illuminating yellow flames, huddling from night's dark cloud: a skinny white rabbit with a matted, bloody clump torn from her neck, a twitchy, swaying great-horned owl, whom glared his beady, tiresome orange eyes from his perch atop the slumbering maple tree, and a sickly, shrunken grey kitten, like a pale of withering ash, purring brokenly in a curled ball on Merlin's lap.

Merlin gave a great, world weary sigh, poking the dismal fire with a long, broken stick of disfigured maple. "Buttercup, come here," he mumbled, gesturing at the bloody mass of hungry, shedding snowy fur; beautiful, although stained with a crusting crimson wound. The rabbit rose on shaking legs, and hobbled to Merlin's outstretched palm. "Your time has come...I'm sorry," Merlin tone reached a plea, stretching for forgiveness.

Buttercup whined, and feebly turned in attempt to scramble away. He abruptly grabbed her by the scruff, and her struggling, shrieking body went limp. The kitten mewed, and the owl gave a dismal hoot, before graciously turning his gaze, as Merlin tossed the body into the jaws of the fire.

"Buttercup served well," Merlin began. "She was a clever girl, may her soul rest with her body."

The owl looked upward into the starry night sky, admiring the stars, which twinkled so far, far away. Vagabond, the lonely songbird, could have whistled Buttercup to sleep had she remained. The owl couldn't sing, yet he still gave a soft, respectful coo.

Merlin continued poking the fire with his stick, watching the rabbits fur burn and skin peal to ash. Slowly, tentatively, the morning awoke, taunting the purple bruises under Merlin's eyes. He blearily sat up, and reached for his mouldy, scruffy boots to clothe his pale, bony feet. The kitten slipped from his lap, and so he lifted the frail creature, placing her within the fluffy lining of his ancient leather satchel. The fire no longer burned, crumbled red jewels glowing and fading to fat blocks of coal.

Merlin untied the scrap of scarlet fabric, crudely crafted into a thin, useless scarf, from around his wrist, feeling the course fabric between each calloused, long fingertip. A scar, thick and red, ran in a deathly slit from each corner of his neck. He hurriedly hid his gruesome lump with the dirty material, and carefully slung his satchel across his shoulder.

"We're nearly there," Merlin said to the owl, his eyes as heavy as lead. "You know what that means."

The owl gave an empty nod, and a sad coo.

"I'll miss you too, my friend, but I know you'll enjoy peace."

The owl didn't reply, but flitted from his perch onto Merlin's outstretched arm, his great power causing Merlin's weak, weary shoulder to crumple under the weight, before swiftly regaining composure.

"You'll like it there," Merlin began in a lousy, slow shuffle from foot to foot. "It's very dark, and rather cold, but the food is splendid. I know you wish to reunite with your songbird, she was such a lovely, happy creature."

Merlin took a deep, shaky breath, and continued.

"There's music, and dancing, and the Queen is an absolute beauty. She'll like you, I'll send her a good word."

The owl gave another coo, nudging his head into Merlin's cheek, struggling to remain upright with great difficulty as Merlin clumsily hobbled along.

Merlin blushed, the rosy tint unfamiliar on his languid, icy blue skin. "Don't be silly. Who could ever love an ugly corpse?"

He scowled darkly as the chirping, merry birds parted for the deathly companions.

"There could have been something, perhaps once, but all that has passed. I'm a country bumpkin, a foolish boy, and a dead one ontop of that. I'm a freak of nature, a mutation of all that should be balanced and equal in this world." He once again sighed, as the forest cleared to warm, sunny fields. He steered clear into the cool, welcoming shadows. "Humans fear death, yet they don't realise how blessed they are."

Merlin halted, and slowly, carefully moved his satchel, prying through the wrinkly leather to gently pull the growling kitten from it's depths. "Take her and fly as far as you can. I'll need my full life for now. I'm sorry."

The owl cooed, and took the scruff of the grey kitten's neck to his beak.

"No, don't say goodbye," Merlin smiled. "Because we'll meet again, in the underworld. Perhaps goodbye _for now_, but not _forever_."

He stepped into the light, wincing at the unfamiliar, searing brightness of the sun. The earth felt too dry, the wind too warm. The grass wasn't green like he'd expected, but dry and sandy.

"A half-life has been so painful, I can only imagine how horrible you've felt. I'm sorry for what I've done to you, my dear old friend."

The owl lifted his wings, and leapt to the crisp blue sky with a jump that clearly required more practice. Merlin could feel the life, which he'd given to the owl and cat, gradually slip away as they furthered in distance. He hobbled onwards through the fields, his gait gradually becoming stronger, his skin gaining a peachy, fleshy tone. His blue eyes, dull as rusted iron, sparkled like stars as though a match had been struck behind, and his sluggish, clogged veins burst into excitement with renewed vigour.

* * *

Freya sat in the corner, away from the merriment infront. It was the Underworld, and creatures of all kinds danced and sang and ate. A goblin, with mossy green skin, a hunched back and nose of huge proportions gave a lewd wink to Freya, as he waltzed with the beautiful wood pigeon patron. Freya nursed her warm, steaming cup of Belladonna juice in her quivering palms, drawing her knees in contact with her chest.

A woman approached from the far corner, ghostly and flickering in bare feet and a frilly white nightdress. Freya knew this was Morgana's vision, and shyly gestured for the elegant, tall woman to come closer. A worm briefly slithered through the moist furtile walls, before a little fairy snatched the pink, slippery creature with stubby hands the size of fingernails, and devoured the wriggling worm with teeth like tiny pointed daggers.

"Good evening, your Majesty," Freya nervously greeted, bowing her head and casting her eyes to the earth floor, where her toes curled around a pale, sickly weed.

"Why do you people call me that," Morgana scowled, modestly attempting to cross her arms over one another. Her nightdress did indeed leave very little to the imagination, and Freya quickly snatched away her gaze in embarrassment.

"Because you are our queen, and we await your return, Morgana LeFay," Freya bashfully replied, reaching to tuck a loose strand of curling hair behind her furry, pointed ears.

Morgana's frown deepened, and she gracefully sat beside Freya on the long, thick log of wood. "I've had these dreams ever since I was a girl. Did you know that?" Morgana murmured, gazing in awe as she'd always used to as a child. "I haven't been here for years."

"Merlin greatly missed you, m'lady," Freya sighed.

The woman's eyes brightened, and a grin spread unbidden in her cheeks, which she hastily muffled behind a jewel-encrusted hand. "Merlin...how has he been?" she excitedly asked.

Freya swallowed her tears and bit her tongue. "He's gone to see you, m'lady, but you won't know."

"Of course I will!" Morgana cried with a glare. "How could I ever forget dear little _Merlin_?!"

"Because this is a dream, m'lady, and everyone forgets dreams."


	2. An Old Dream

**THE VAGABOND OPERA**

* * *

Merlin woke before dawn, the rusty hinges of his rotting wooden shutters quivering and squealing in the rough, brisk wind. He shifted uncomfortably, unused to the plump, itchy straw mattress and sheer, thin blanket swaddling his frame. The unfamiliar, slick stone floors felt like ice under his curling toes as he struggled to defeat the clinging warmth of sleep. He staggered into his clothes, feeling as though he were merely suspended by a feeble, thin length of string by his unrelenting puppet.

The recent days within Camelot had been rather eventful, Merlin pondered as he tugged his shirt over his belly. A witch, clever as a fox, although very weak, had intruded the walls of Camelot, and came frightening close to murdering the insufferably arrogant Prince Arthur. Merlin managed to unwind the weaves of her sleeping charm with very little effort, but the undignified leap to redirect the witch's dagger had required agility he honestly didn't possess. Merlin's back still gave sore, treacherous aches as he bent to secure the straps of his shoes.

After the appointment of his status as Arthur's manservant (by no less than the King himself!), he'd earned quite the reputation amongst the serving quarters. Many of the flimsy maids and clumsy stableboys offered ominous, gap-toothed grins, whilst others preferred to look down their nose, as though he were a mere insect unworthy of stomping.

Gaius had been rather friendly, if a little overbearing. In his old age, he couldn't quite manage as he used to, and took full advantage of his young, capable apprentice. He'd immediately discovered Merlin's magical secret, although luckily held no knowledge of his curse. Save from his dearest mother, nobody could know that he was little more than an animated corpse, bound with artificial life and never to rest in peace.

Merlin sluggishly strode to the door, swiftly tying his scarf around the mottled, mangled red scar along his neck. Gaius snored softly, his cheek pressed against numerous sheaves of parchment and surrounded by a huge cluster of grimy, unfamiliar bottles, which left a thick, grimy aroma lingering in the air. Merlin covered his wrinkling nose with the collar of his jacket, making a grumbling noise of protest as he scurried away.

He walked through the castle, with awakened with a weary thrum, the servants blearily striding, still half-asleep along the halls. Merlin reached the inner courtyard, relishing the songs and cries of little birds as they flitted to their nests atop the high, stony battlements. Johnathon, the old, withered stablemaster offered a weary wave, his hunched figure retreating to the company of his beloved horses, lugging a huge bucket with his scrawny arms. Merlin approached the well in the center, and drew the sploshing, muddy water upwards with the groaning chains that shackled the old, mossy bucket. When it rose to the ground, he splashed his hands and face within the icy depth, gaping like a fish as his cheeks froze like glaciers.

"You alright, squirt?" a rugged voice teased. He turned to face the cook's apprentice; a plump, jolly girl with greasy, mousy brown hair, a scabby mouth and witty, twinkling blue eyes.

"Hello, Joyce," Merlin softly smiled, his face still dripping and nose red and runny. He hurriedly wiped himself with his sleeve. "How are you?"

Joyce shrugged, lowering the well bucket with surprising strength and vigour. "M'okay, just the same as usual. How about you?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Merlin, reaching to help, although his bony arms didn't offer much assistance. Nevertheless, the bucket soon hit the water with a solid _plop! _"The day hasn't even started yet."

"It has for me," Joyce grumbled. "'Bin awake fer two hours now. Soddin' nobles, they get awfully good food." They began pulling the bucket up again. "And what do I get? Pig scraps, that's what!"

Merlin boomed with laughter, and Joyce gave an indignant glare in his direction. "Count yourself lucky you get scraps at all," he mirthfully goaded. "God knows you don't work for them."

"Oi!" Joyce screeched, and playfully cuffed him on the head. He grinned, and quickly retreated before she could do much more harm.

Since Joyce was busily collecting water, Merlin ventured into the kitchens, where the far plumper Head Cook hurriedly roasted sausages over the crackling fire. The kitchens were rather large and scant, with everything very tidy and orderly placed in the correct cupboards. A small layer of dust carpeted the floor, powdered with flour and odd sticky substances dropped in a scrambling hurry for the King's feast. Two other cooks; one frightfully lanky and tall, the other an amusing contrast in his short stumpiness, murmured sleepily as they rolled sweet pastries into perfect slivers.

Merlin cleared his throat. "Is the Prince's breakfast ready yet?" he meekly pardoned, tentatively peering at the two sleepy cooks.

"Goddamnit it's nearly ready! Just stop pestering me!" the Head Cook bellowed, her face red as a tomato as she sweat over the pan of big, meaty sausages.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am," Merlin squeaked, not daring to mention that he'd actually asked only once today.

* * *

Morgana sat daintily before the vanity mirror in her bedchambers, blinking blearily at her pale reflection as she relished the soothing, soft comb melodically running through her hair. Gwen's doe-eyed smile bubbled with adoration as she placed a motherly hand on Morgana's shoulder.

"Bad dreams, m'lady?" she said, twisting Morgana's silky black locks into long, winding plait.

"I'm afraid so," Morgana replied, curling her lips into a thin line, the mottled, wilted violet beneath her eyes protruding in fleshy bruises. "Will you be able to conceal it?"

"Not a problem, m'lady," Gwen beamed, gently teasing the curling strands of hair around her delicate fingers. "If I may ask, what happened?"

Morgana twiddled her thumbs, gazing bashfully at her lap. The fabric was rather beautiful; the colour of wheat fields under a warm golden sun. The colour didn't suit her, she looked far too frail and weak under such a bold shade. "Oh, it wasn't very interesting," she answered quietly.

Gwen arched her eyebrow, a wise glint gracing her warm chocolate eyes as she secured a beautifully crafted hair pin, shaped like a lily and adorned with pearls, by her ear.

"Alright," Morgana finally relented with a wistful grin. "There was a boy there -except he wasn't a boy, but I remember him as a boy- and he took me dancing with the faeries."

"Go on," Gwenevere coaxed, setting her hands on either side the elegant chair Morgana sat.

"We got tired, so he took me on a boat and we went fishing under the moonlight. We didn't catch any fish, he couldn't bare to harm a living creature, so he dove into the water and pushed our boat instead." Morgana sighed dreamily.

"He sounds rather handsome," the maidservant commented. "What did he look like?"

Morgana scowled and pouted, jutting her chin defiantly. "I don't remember," she said. "I don't remember his name, either. I keep dreaming about him, but when I wake up I don't even remember how he smiled."

Gwenevere placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and leant to gaze pityingly in the silvery reflection of Morgana's eyes. "They're just dreams, m'lady," she said. "I wouldn't think much of it."

Morgana gave a soft smile. "I know," she said. "I'd like lips red today, Gwenevere. And bring me my gold broach -the one with the little moon on the end."

"As you wish, m'lady."


End file.
